


Acrimony Melts Away

by Sharpshoooter



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark Will, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is also a Manipulative Fuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpshoooter/pseuds/Sharpshoooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>re·al·i·za·tion </b>/ˌrē(ə)ləˈzāSH(ə)n/</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b>1.</b> an act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact.<br/><b>2.</b> the fulfillment or achievement of something desired or anticipated.</p>
<p>Will's realization comes earlier than anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peeshwank

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wylerette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wylerette/gifts).



> Fair warning: though I nitpicked the fuck outta this, it's still unbeta'd. Also, while not my first Hannigram fanfic, it's the first one I'm posting. Be kind to my baby.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a realization, things are said, mistakes are made.
> 
> Hannibal, you naughty little sausage.

The realization hits when Hannibal looks up at him, eyes damp as officers examine Tobias and Franklyn’s bodies. He looks at the psychiatrist and, in that moment, he _sees_. Hannibal is convincing, of course. He’s immensely intelligent, knows how to manipulate people. Masks and hiding places come easily to him. He’d almost had Will himself fooled. The dejected way Hannibal eyes Tobias’ body as it is rolled out on the gurney feels rehearsed, Will realizes, like the look had been practiced in a mirror beforehand. It’s like he’s looking at an actor playing a part, like watching a mask slide into place.

For now, Will pushes it aside, lets Hannibal play Jack like a fiddle and have his fun.

“Could your patient’ve been involved with any of what Budge was doing?”

Hannibal gives a little shake of his head, looking so incredibly forlorn. “I thought this was a simple matter of poor choice in friends.”

Will leans back against Hannibal’s desk, looking down at the older man. His lip is split, eyes bloodshot and forehead streaked with his own blood. Obviously, the battle that raged in here was a vicious one. Pulling the medkit left by the EMTs closer, Will grabs a piece of gauze and gently begins dabbing at the man’s forehead, brushing Hannibal’s hair aside with the back of his hand. This time, the look Hannibal sends him is anything but manufactured.

“This doesn’t feel simple,” Jack replies, and maybe he’s smarter than Will gives him credit for. He hopes he is and isn’t in the same moment. When Jack walks away to continue examining Hannibal’s office – a crime scene, which is an unbelievably odd thought – Will forces himself to make eye contact with Dr. Lecter. A small part of him still rebels against the action.

“I feel like I’ve… dragged you into my world,” Will whispers, eyes drifting to the officers still milling about the room.

“I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company.”

For a long time, they sit there in silence, even after Jack lets them know that he and his men are clearing out. The silence that surrounds them isn’t tense or relaxed. It’s… stiff, like sitting out on your front lawn in winter, letting the chill soak into your bones. Only when they are truly alone does Hannibal stand from his chair, walking slowly around the desk until he’s face-to-face with his profiler. The air seems to move around him, as if Hannibal is the center of the universe and the earth moves to make way for him.

“You’ve something you want to say to me.” This is not a question, there’s no lilt at the end of the sentence.

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending you don’t already know what it is I’ve got to say,” Will responds, leaning further upon the desk when Hannibal steps forward, the edge of the structure digging against his spine painfully. “That would be rude.”

“Quite right,” Hannibal concurs, lips curving momentarily. Another step forward, and Will’s throat forces a swallow, jaw tightening. “You are very calm – a bit surprising, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You’re hardly the first serial killer or psychopath I’ve encountered, Dr. Lecter,” he points out. Hannibal looks pleased by the statement, nearly _smug_. Bastard. “My first cannibal, though. Rudeness – that’s how you picked them?”

“Yes.” He steps forward once more - this time, close enough that Will can see the glint in his eyes, can feel the warm air that brushes across his skin with each of the psychiatrist’s exhales. The look Hannibal fixes Will with makes him feel like his skin is being peeled back and his insides examined at length. Hannibal forces eye contact between them, reads him like his favorite novel. “The first – your first – were they someone very close to you?”

“…Yes.”

* * *

**_Graham Residence_ **

****_New Orleans, Louisiana_  
December 21, 1987  
23:39 PM 

_Will’s elementary school is full of water. If he looks closely, he can see fishes swimming beneath the surface. It’s nearly enchanting. His father’s speedboat breaks through the water swiftly as he steers the large structure down the hallway, past the lockers and through into the gymnasium. There are other children there, smiling and playing as they stand and walk above the water. Shifting the boat’s gearshift down, he feels it slow to a stop under his feet._

_When he turns around, Mariama is there, a grin on her face. Her hair has been threaded through dozens of white beads and they click together every time she moves her head. “Will, have you seen the sharks?” she asks, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as the boat bobs in the water._

_“No, what they do?”_

_“They ate Principal Hudgens! You should’ve saw it, Willy!” Mariama squeals before rushing away in a flurry of light-up sandals and white beads._

_Absentmindedly, he leans back against the wheel, knocking the gearshift up again. The boat begins to creep forwards once again, and Will quickly reaches over-_

_\---_

_Heavy footsteps and a dull thudding are what wake him. He rolls out of bed, groggy still. Once on his feet, Will tugs down the bottom of his shorts as he wanders out of his bedroom, leaving the glow-in-the-dark stickers and stacks of books that litter the room. Making his way through the hallway and down the stairs, he spots the shine of the lit kitchen light._

_“Dad?” he mumbles, going towards the room, where an odd yet familiar huffing sound can be heard as he approaches. When he reaches the entrance, he sees his father, hair wet, and a young man. Or the body of one. “Dad?” His voice trembles this time as he looks at the limp man laid across the kitchen island._

_“Sorry, Peeshwank. Didn’t mean to wake you. Up to helping your old man tonight?” Ivan Graham asks as two of his fingers press against the unconscious body’s neck, checking for a pulse. He seems pleased with what he finds, nodding his head before looking up at his son who has a contemplative look on his face. After a moment of thinking, Will nods his head and Ivan beams. “Good boy, Will. Here.” He fishes through the deep pockets of his jacket before he hands the boy a hunting knife. Will unsheathes it, the look on his face nearly reverential. The instrument is beautiful, with a handle carved from stag bone. It had been a gift from a distant aunt that had not gone to waste. The handle is nearly white as new snow, although he’s also seen it brown with dried blood. Even then, the knife had managed to retain its unsettling glory. “Start from the breastbone, all the way down to the pubic bone.”_

_“Like the frogs?” Will asks, readying the knife in his hand. Ivan chuckles, nodding his head._

_“Weh. Like the frogs.” Ivan unbuttons the man’s shirt one-by-one, eventually exposing the chest. “You can reach, or you want a chair?” Again, Will thinks it over before nodding, dark curls falling over his eyes as he does. His dad smiles encouragingly, ruffling the boy’s hair before he goes into the dining room to drag a chair over. The legs screech against the tiled floor, making Will wince at the sound. He thinks he sees the body in front of him twitch. The chair is set beside him before Ivan helps him up._

_Will looks up at his father, who brushes his unruly curls aside with a slight smile. “Ready?”_

_Nervously fiddling with the weapon in his grasp, the boy glances between the body and his dad. “Is he dead?”_

_“Not yet. Don’t worry though, he won’t be waking up any time soon.” Gently, his hand covers his son’s and guides it to the mystery man’s chest until the point of the 14” blade is pressed against his sternum. “Right here, and then straight down the middle, okay? You’ve got this, Peeshwank.” Then he takes his hand away, let’s Will choose when he’s ready to do it._

_Taking a deep breath, Will waits until his hand is steady before he does anything. Won’t do any good for him to make a mess because he was a little nervous. After that, it doesn’t take much pressure for the knife to sink into flesh. Just as promised, the man stays unconscious, though his heart still pounds away beneath his ribs. Getting the knife to move downward is a different story, it takes more effort. Before he can get too far, though, his dad’s hand stops him._

_“Now, Willy, don’t get too deep in there. Don’t wanna knick the intestines unless you’re ready to throw up after, okay?”_

_“’kay.” He lightens the pressure on the knife, dragging it down between his pecs, slicing through the abdominal muscle like warm butter as his father looks on proudly. Careful not to catch the intestines, the incision finally ends just before the pelvic bone. The hand Will had laid on the right shoulder for stability comes up slick with red blood. It’s already dripping over the skin, slick and coppery. The smell – god, the smell. Will can feel it in the back of his throat, the same feeling of blood in the back of his throat after a bad nosebleed. Laying the knife beside the body, the boy looks up at Ivan with a nervous smile, eyes shining. “Good?”_

_“Perfect, Willy. You did good. A lot neater than last time. I’m proud of you.” Will slides off the chair and Ivan leads his son to the sink, helps him wash off. The soap goes up to his elbows and splashes onto the counter as they scrub the crimson slick from his skin. “Good job, boy. Good job. Wanna stay and watch me finish up?”_

_Will ponders his answer for a beat and then nods his assent is he scrubs his hands and arms with a limp, gray hand towel. Satisfied, Ivan walks back around the island and scoots the chair to the end, where Will will get a prime view of their victim._

_Will’s eyes roam over the man laid out before him before they flash over to his father. It isn’t hard to read the man, who he knows like the back of his hand. There is a tiredness to him, like he’s spent all night working himself to the bone – which really isn’t farfetched. But alongside that lies a giddiness, like an adrenaline junkie staring down the side of a cliff waiting to jump._

_“Hey, Dad?” he murmurs, fingers worrying the hem of his gray shirt nervously. Ivan’s brows raise at the question, his eyes moving between the man and his son, as if considering which he should deal with first. Settling on his son, he sets the knife back down, giving the boy his full attention._

_“What’s wrong, bud?”_

_“Who was he?” His voice trembles slightly, and he curses himself for it. He should be strong enough, he knows. His dad is._

_“He was… a bad man, Willy,” his dad murmurs, coming around to meet him. On the chair, Will is the same height as his dad. It’s an odd feeling. “He hurt people. Women. He sold them, like toys. Women_ are not _toys, Willy. And now, he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Now, he’ll help us put supper on the table. We can attract fish and make lures, bring dinner to Mrs. Cantella and her daughter in their time of grieving. Right, Peeshwank?”_

_“…Right, pa.”_

_Ivan gives his son a quick kiss atop his curls and then rounds the island, taking his knife in hand. Then, with a serene smile curling the corners of his lips, the blade sinks into the newly dead corpse, and crimson blood spills once again._

* * *

By the time Will has finished reciting the memory, the look in Hannibal’s eyes has turned from predatory to _hungry_. The man’s next action takes the profiler by surprise, only because it is such a rarity for Hannibal to display any measure of vulnerability. Clasping a hand on the back of Will’s neck, he pulls the man forward, pressing a kiss atop his curls.

“You have proven yourself to be far more magnificent a creature than I could ever have imagined, Will,” he murmurs, gaining a quick smile from the younger man as Will gently pulls back to look Hannibal in the eyes, finger’s winding around the psychiatrist’s. Tugging the older man’s hand from his neck, he lets out a light chuckle.

“Should I even ask what you thought of me before you I told you about… that?”

“It’s quite obvious to anyone who knows where to look that you are more a wolf in sheep’s clothing than a… lone wolf.” A light sigh, almost wistful. “When I first began to delve into your mind, I believed that I’d be able to witness the slow arrival of your becoming. Instead, you have bestowed upon me a greater gift.”

Hannibal Lecter, still as cryptic as ever.

“Would I be correct in assuming that you’ve kept up the habit that your father passed to you so many years ago?” Hannibal asks, unwinding Wills fingers from his wrist to instead lift the extremity to his nose, breathing in the scent that lingers in the fisherman’s inner wrist. Purely Will…

“You would be, but again, when are you not?” Will asks, then, under his breath; “Smug bastard…”

“I’d very much like to have you for dinner, Will.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” the profiler quips, a teasing smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“As a guest,” he amends, looking quite amused as he does.

“Is there going to be a vegetarian option for me?” he asks after the moment of silence, his gaze moving from the psychiatrist’s forehead to his eyes. When Hannibal raises his eyebrows, Will chuckles fondly. “Long pig is more of an… acquired taste.”

“One which you have not acquired,” Hannibal comments, both men thinking back to the first time Will had uttered those words, not too long ago and yet seeming ages in the past. Will hums an affirming sound as he nods.

“Not yet, anyway.” Will feels, more than sees, the relief that seems to lighten whatever has been weighing on Hannibal’s shoulders. Baring himself to Hannibal, and Hannibal baring himself to him in return, has made Will himself feel a degree of solace in no longer having to hide himself from the man. He had begun to feel Hannibal tugging at his mask back when Jack had first introduced them, and the man had not slowed down or stopped his efforts since then, though he’d been more subtle about it. Will, in return, had tried to get his own peek behind the curtain that Hannibal hid behind. Yet every time he felt he was getting closer to him, he’d felt the man withdrawn, keeping his hand hidden until he could no longer. A noise passes through Hannibal’s lips, a soft hum that hints at something more primitive. “Hannibal?”

“ ’In the very act my conscience reproved me, knowing, as I did, that, sooner or later, the tie must be broken, and this was only nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil day’,” he murmurs under his breath. When Will steps back, his own breath catches. The look in Hannibal’s eyes, it’s the same one he’d sent toward Tobias’ body. _Manufactured_. Another look practiced in the mirror while there is no one around to see. A pang of sudden anger runs up Will’s spine, unexplainable in its intensity as it makes him clench his fists until his nails leave bite marks on the heels of his palms.

It’s the same look Jack earned earlier while he was debriefing Hannibal.

Will’s smart enough to know when he’s being played, unlike Jack. That doesn’t make the sting hurt any less.

“After what I’ve just told you, you’d attempt to manipulate me so blatantly?” Will lets out a sarcastic harrumph, taking a step back until Hannibal is outside of his personal space once again. Hannibal makes a move to follow him but the scathing look Will sends seems to convince him otherwise. A bitter laugh escapes him as he shakes his head incredulously, tongue running over his teeth in an attempt to keep his voice low, calm. “Wow, _Dr. Lecter_. You really are a textbook psychopath. The rules apply to everyone but you, right?” If Hannibal is startled by Will’s sudden capriciousness, he doesn’t show it, expression still and indiscernible.

“Will, I did not in any way mean to make you feel as if-“

“Well guess what, Hannibal? You fucking did. After I’ve spilled my fucking guts to you- _really_? If you expect _anything_ from me, then _I_ expect to be treated like an equal, Hannibal. Not a goddamn pawn. Got it? I did not tell you my darkest secret to provide an advantage for you to use against the FBI.”

Now Hannibal has the fucking decency to look properly chastised, hands held out in a show of capitulation. “Understood. I apologize.”

The righteous anger that had run through Will’s veins fizzles out, leaving only a watery heaviness in his chest that’s reminiscent of what he’d felt when Jack had first recruited him. It’s the feeling he gets when he’s waiting for the next shoe to drop. “Good. I… think it’s time I go home. I’ll see you soon, Dr. Lecter,” he murmurs. The reversion back to his formal title is not lost on Hannibal. Neither of them look at one another as Will takes his leave, the door to the patient’s exit clicking softly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I should add that I know there are plenty of grammar mistakes in the flashback. But Will is a 12-year-old living in New Orleans and those were all completely intentional.
> 
> Also, if you haven't googled it yet, Peeshwank means "little one" or "runt".


	2. Gauche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will tries to let off some steam, Hannibal cooks, and there are body parts thrown in for fun.
> 
> But that's pretty much the whole show, isn't it?
> 
>  
> 
> Everyone, give a hand to [kannst-du-nicht](http://kannst-du-nicht.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing and being super super kind in general. Thank you, darling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some homophobic slurs and gendered insults used towards the end.

Later that night, Will is unsurprised when he finds that although his anger has simmered down, his body still longs for an outlet, a release of energy. Even the dogs seem to sense this coiled urge within him as they follow close to his heels and nearly come underfoot as he walks. Winston nudges at his side with his snout and Buster stamps his paws into the carpet, kneading anxiously.Tonight, it seems, is a hunting night.

 

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs to the pets, patting the back of Annie’s head as her front paws press against his shin, “calm down, it’s okay.” Carefully maneuvering around the herd of dogs, Will makes his way to his highboy and snatches up a white tee and a pair of Riders. Both are cheap, easy to dispose of and replace. Convenient.

 

His target is not picked at random – not a name picked out of a hat or chosen with his eyes shut. Killan Gardener is a particular and precise choice – someone who will not be missed. While the drugs running through his veins might be pickling his brain, Killan is still an adequate body. His innards will still attract hungry fish, which is the whole purpose of this exercise.

 

 _Is it considered cannibalism if you eat something that ate another human_ , Will wonders. _Cannibalism by proxy? Maybe it’s just some odd brand of poetic justice. That seems perfectly rational._

 

Will changes in a rush, tossing what he’d previously been wearing in the hamper. Or rather, at it, as not one piece of clothing actually makes it into the bag. One of the dogs is startled by the stray tee that lands on his head and runs up to Will, tail wagging. “Sorry, Chester,” he mumbles, plucking the garment off the creature.

 

He slips on a pair of cheap Nikes running shoes, tying the laces tight. Under his bed lies a navy blue duffel bag, which Will hauls out before casting the strap over his shoulder.

 

Time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

Finding Gardener is almost too easy, but Will isn’t planning on looking his gift horse in the mouth tonight. The drug den Gardener’s lying in is about as dirty and run-down as Will had imagined it would be. Retrieving the kid was even easier – everyone inside the house was either too indifferent or too high to care about the stranger hauling Killan up and dragging him away. He hadn’t needed the duffel after all.

 

Once strapped into the passenger seat of Will’s beat-up hatchback, Killan does little more than mumble under his breath. No muss or fuss, which Will can appreciate, pickle brain and all. The drive back to his house is long and quiet, accompanied only by the sound of NPR droning on about something or other. Usually he’d be listening raptly, but tonight his attention is elsewhere. His passenger grunts, eyes unfocused as he tosses his head from side-to-side as if he’s a goddamn horse.

 

Whenever the street it unoccupied, Will speeds unashamedly and reaches his house in half the time he normally would. Yanking his keys out of the ignition, Will opens his door and climbs out, garnering Killan’s attention. Sort of. The kid’s still pretty out of it. The sun has long since set, bathing everything in darkness as Will walks around to the passenger’s side and yanks the door open, glaring at the boy beneath him. The stench that surrounds him is less than pleasant but not overwhelming.

 

“W-wheremiye?” Killan mumbles, eyes rolling in an attempt to look up at his captor.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Reaching over and unbuckling the kid’s seatbelt is easy enough. Getting him to stand up is… not quite as simple. “Fuckin’ work with me,” Will growls, a hand on the back of Killan’s neck and an arm around his waist as he tries to pull him up. Gardener’s a dead weight. Whatever this kid had taken, it was some strong shit, undoubtedly laced with another substance if his lack of coherence is anything to go by.

 

Finally, Will pulls him into a fireman’s carry and lugs him into his garage. Killan is laid out unceremoniously across a metal table, the type medical examiners spread dead bodies across. “Don’t go anywhere,” Will tells the semi-conscious kid, going back out to retrieve his duffel from his sedan and shove it back under his bed. After grabbing his hunting knife from his bedside table, Will makes his way back to the garage.

 

Killan grunts as Will shuts the door behind him, turning his head to try and get a good look at the man. Vision swimming, Killan attempts to blink the film from his eyes. Will slowly approaches the table and unsheathes his blade, gently shushing the boy. “Don’t strain yourself, bud. Just relax, all right?” he whispers and Killan’s eyes seem to look straight through him. The knife is set down by the boy’s head and Will reaches down to pull open a metal drawer, taking a pair of purple latex gloves and tugging them onto his hands.

 

Patting the kid’s cheek, Will unzips the ragged hoodie that smells of BO and hash before using his knife to cut away the yellowed t-shirt underneath. Both will have to be burned later. For now, he allows them to dangle from the sides of the table, pinned in place by the limp body atop them.

 

For a moment Will considers administering a barbiturate, but realizes that the drugs currently turning Killan’s brain to mush make the point moot anyway. Readying the knife in his hand, his eyes trace over the path he plans to carve with his blade. Will can almost picture the rising crimson staining over flesh like dew, dripping down in rivulets, permeating the air with the scent of metallic gore. Pressing the tip right at the breastbone, he applies the slightest of pressure…

 

…and then his cell phone rings. Because of fucking course it would. With a long-suffering sigh, Will slams his knife down, the sound ringing out as he fishes the device out of his pocket and forgoes checking his caller ID before answering. He already has a pretty good inkling of who’s on the line.

 

“Hello, Will.”

 

“Dr. Lecter. You’re sort of catching me at an inconvenient time.”

 

“Apologies. I suppose dropping by unannounced inconveniences you more than usual tonight,” Hannibal comments, a light breath dusting over their call as he exhales.

 

“Shit. You’re here?” Will asks, looking at the garage door, half hoping it might become transparent and allow him a view of the driveway. It continues its opaque existence. “Shit.”

 

There’s a moment of silence and Will can _hear_ Hannibal’s amusement. “Are you going to open the door, Will?”

 

Reluctantly, Will replies; “Like I said, bad time. Just- just give me a moment.” He ends the call after that, sliding the phone back into his pocket and sheathing his hunting knife. The knife is set well out of Killan’s reach – _no need to take any unnecessary risks_ – and Will walks up to the switch, pressing the button that will allow his cannibal associate entry.

 

The frame groans as it slides up, slowly revealing Hannibal’s silhouette, blotted out by the bright headlights of his Bentley that illuminate him from behind. Hannibal’s gait is swift and purposeful as he approaches and ducks under the door, apparently too impatient to wait for the door to finish its ascent. “You know, most people call _before_ their arrival, not during it,” Will chirps, punching the button once more and listening to the frame whine loudly as it backtracks, descending behind his psychiatrist.

 

Hannibal’s eyes studiously avoid the incoherent body strewn on the exam table, gaze locked on Will instead. His face betrays no emotion, as usual. “A bit of a miscalculation on my part.”

 

“Nothing you do is miscalculated, Hannibal,” Will comments under his breath.

 

“I’d say our last encounter was a miscalculation,” Hannibal points out, finally turning his attention to the third member of their party. He stalks around the table, taking stock of Will’s humble setup.

 

“Oh, that was more than a miscalculation,” the empath scoffs in reply, positioning himself so that the table stands between them. “That was- that was _gauche_.”

 

Hannibal winces and Will silently wonders if the expression is genuine or only for his benefit.

 

“I regret that we had to leave off in such a manner. I completely overstepped my bounds and I’d like the chance to formally extend my apologies.”

 

The profiler briefly entertains the thought of lunging for his knife and driving it through Hannibal’s temple, or maybe shoving his arm through the chum grinder. It wouldn’t be unjustified. Judging by the look of mirth sent his way, Hannibal seems able to guess where his mind has wandered. Will abandons his bloodletting fantasies for the moment, gesturing instead to the indoor entrance that leads to his kitchen. “Care to come in?”

 

Hannibal considers the door for a moment. “Is it a plan of yours to make good use of your blade tonight?” he asks, lips twitching into a half-smile.

 

“Sure is, just not on you,” Will answers, gesticulating with a purple hand towards the door a second time. “Not tonight, anyway. Are you coming in?”

 

“I have several effects of mine that I’d like to retrieve from my vehicle.”

 

“Should’ve said that before I locked you in. Need some help?” A quick punch of the button and his garage gapes open once again. Hannibal mulls over the offer a moment (putting on a show, Will’s empathy tells him) and Will barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“I’d appreciate it, but it seems you have more pressing matters to deal with. Where do you keep your utensils?”

 

Will takes this as an invitation to continue his previous task and takes up his knife once more, pulling the lips of his gloves back into place. “Flatware is to the left of the stove, cooking utensils by the fridge.”

 

“Thank you. Dinner should be ready in an hour, 90 minutes at most.” With that, Hannibal disappears out into the front lawn. The frame comes down and Will gets to work.

 

It takes Will 70 minutes to disassemble Gardener and get his parts into buckets. It takes Hannibal 83 to finish cooking their supper. In his thirteen minutes of free time, Will showers off the gore that managed to splatter onto him – he considers rubbing one off real quick, but something about Hannibal’s presence prevents him from acting on the compulsion – and then takes the time to gather all fibers of clothing that might give indication to Killan’s presence. They’ll make some very nice kindling for a bonfire, he thinks cheerfully. Once everything is tied up in a garbage bag and dumped on his back porch, Will makes his way to the kitchen.

 

The aroma – Will isn’t nearly eloquent enough to describe it beyond _Jesus fuck I need that in my mouth this instant_.

 

His dinner table isn’t close to being large enough for one of Hannibal’s expansive spreads, but he’s set a vase full of- wait a second.

 

“Wolf’s bane?”

 

Hannibal looks up from where he’s been setting their plates and shoots the empath a smile. “They’re quite lovely, are they not?”

 

“From a distance.”

 

“You’re put off by this flower’s toxicity,” Hannibal guesses as Will makes a weary approach. “I assure you, they do not bite. And nor do I, in case you were wondering.”

 

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Will deadpans. The plates are piled high with what looks like sausages and potatoes and red wine breathes in two wine goblets that look too fragile to have come from his cabinet. “This is… homey.”

 

“I guessed you might enjoy something a bit more simple than my usual fare. _Choucroute Garnie_. I also took the liberty of selecting a wine for us tonight; _Barbaresco Riserva_ , known for its scent of roses and cherries as well as its long finish.” He pulls out a seat and waves Will forward. Will is a smidge apprehensive to say the least, but he sits obediently, chuckling when Hannibal actually beams.

 

“ _Choucroute Garnie_. Sounds fancy.”

 

“Sauerkraut, sausage, potatoes, and cured meats.” When Hannibal sits across from him, Will takes up his flatware and pierces a sausage with his fork. A swipe of the knife runs through it like butter.

 

“A deceptive meal. How apropos,” he quips. “Should I worry about the meat?”

 

“Nothing that deviates from what you might consume on a normal day.” The hint of gaiety in his tone doesn’t escape Will’s notice as Hannibal cuts a piece of potato away, eyes trained solely on his companion. There’s a small feeling of smugness in knowing all Will had to do was bat his eyelashes to get Hannibal to veer away from his usual choice meat – he imagines it’s the same thrill carnies feel knowing they’ve trained lions into house pets.

 

He decides to goad fate just a little when he locks eyes with Hannibal while his lips seal around the speared meat, the taste of sage and coriander bursting over his tongue. And then he might be goading himself when he notices Hannibal’s crimson eyes darken as Will chews, a light smirk on the profiler’s face. He is well aware of the fact that he’s pretty much inviting evil to his door every second he sits across from the man anyway. If he’s going down, it might as well be with a bang, right?

 

That’s what Will tells himself as he licks char from his thumb and raises an innocent eyebrow.

 

“I can’t help but wonder exactly why you’ve decided to turn a blind eye to my private avocation,” Hannibal confesses in a modulated tone, swiping sauerkraut onto his fork as he gazes across the table. It doesn’t take a hawkeye to notice the slight tremor in the psychiatrist’s voice.

 

Will shrugs and sets down his flatware before he leans back in his chair, lips pursed as he loses himself in thought. Honestly, he hadn’t been quite sure either. Perhaps there lies the root of his earlier anger. Will Graham is not a man used to being unsure of himself. Hannibal just tends to bring out the worst in him, it seems. “I suppose… because I find you interesting after all,” he says at length, taking the opportunity to sip at his wine and marvel at the flavor of roses that coats his palette.

 

He breathes red fruit, flowers, and soil and his head swims pleasantly in maroon waters. This is partly from his earlier adrenaline, he knows, and partly from the way Hannibal looks at him like he’s something to be devoured. Like he wants to part Will’s ribs and climb inside, live down in his ribcage - in the dry leaves of his heart - while Will simply watches and lets his vital fluid overflow.

 

Maybe that’s exactly what he wants to do. Will doesn’t have to wonder if he reciprocates the feeling. He already knows the answer, knows that if every FBI agent Jack could muster up were breathing down his neck and telling him the answer was _no_ , he’d still say ‘yes’ every time.

 

It’s enough to bring another nearly imperceptible smile to his lips. Will’s never been one to ignore his gut. “And I feel that we have a lot in common, which is not something I ever thought I’d see in someone else,” the empath adds before he sets his wineglass down, eyes searching Hannibal’s face.

 

“You are lonely.”

 

“I’m alone,” he corrects. Hannibal’s mouth twitches minutely as he lets out a small sniff (disagreement). “There’s a difference. You can be lonely while surrounded by people. I don’t have that.”

 

“You can now, if you’d like.” His mouth twitches again, this time morphing his expression into something more likeable.

 

They share a clandestine smile surrounded by rising smoke, the taste of cherries on their lips as Will’s heart begins to flip behind his ribs.

 

* * *

 

**_Graham Residence_ **

_New Orleans, Louisiana_  
_March 13, 1989  
_ _14:47 PM_

_Gravel crunches underfoot as Will jogs down the windy road, his backpack slamming against his spine with every step. His feet kick up dirt and sweat drips down his temple, curls plastering themselves to his skin. He turns onto his driveway, nearly skidding as he banks the corner. Ivan sits on the porch, 12-gauge propped up by his rocking chair. The sight of the fowling piece makes Will stop short, breath coming in short, quick rasps as he stands at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door._

_“Dad?” the 14 year-old huffs, clearing his throat of the dust that clogs his airway. For a moment, Will feels a flash of confusion as he looks around, realizing that something’s off. “Dad, where’s Lamphere?”_

_“Don’t go to the backyard, Willy,” his father responds, his chair creaking with every slow rock as he sips from an amber beer bottle. “I’ll clean it up later.”_

_Horror seizes him, makes his lungs still and muscles freeze. “You didn’t. Dad, please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”_

_“That goddamn dog was getting too old, Peeshwank. We can’t afford to keep taking him to the fucking animal hospital, okay? You ask me, we did that thing a favor.”_

_Anger isn’t like it is in the movies. He can’t hear his own heartbeat and his vision doesn’t go red. It’s just… it’s a lot like falling halfway down a flight a stairs. One second everything is fine, and then there’s just a whole lot of hurt and broken pride._

_“You had no goddamn right. You… no.” Breaths are getting harder to come by when there’s too much fire in his chest. He imagines he’s choking on smoke and all he breathes is embers, glowing and dying on his tongue. “Fuck you.”_

_“I’d watch my tone were I you,” Ivan growls, white-knuckling the neck of his bottle. “Quit crying like a little faggot, all right? That’s not how I raised you – I raised you to be a man, not a fucking pussy.”_

_Swiping at the dampness on his cheeks, Will manages another gruff “Fuck you,” before he stomps into the house. When the front door finally closes behind Ivan, Will knows that slick red that stained the grass of the backyard has been washed away, replaced by overturned dirt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lamphere is named after Robert Lamphere, who was a famous FBI agent and cracked some mighty tough cases in the 40’s and 50’s. I figured Will might be a fan of a guy like him.


End file.
